Stones From the River by Ursula Hegi Page B

he’d left the
Gymnasium
to run his father’s business for himself and his older sister.
    Emil Hesping moved through the rooms as if reclaiming lost rights and, like a host, poured Mosel wine for everyone from green bottles he’d brought in a wooden case on the back of his motorcycle.
    The taxidermist, Herr Heidenreich, helped Herr Hansen carry two
Schwarzwälder Kirschtorten
from his bakery. Propping his cigar against a plate, the taxidermist cut the first wedge of
Torte
for Trudi. Squatting on his heels, he handed her the plate. His eyes were brown and kind. “You’re lucky to have such pretty hair, Trudi,” he said.
    “Such pretty hair,” the baker agreed and stroked Trudi’s head withthe hand that had two fingers missing from the war.
    Although Trudi felt wicked for liking all that attention, she couldn’t stop herself from enjoying it. There was an excitement about all this, something new, unknown. And yet, whenever she recalled that closed coffin, she’d feel something cold rush throughout her body. As long as the coffin had been open, she’d been certain her mother was not the woman inside, but once the lid had been shut, it had been harder to stay convinced.
    She walked past Herr Immers, but the butcher didn’t even see her because he and Herr Braunmeier were busy complaining to each other about something called the Versailles
Friedensvertrag
—a
Schandvertrag
, they called it, a disgrace. Then they went on to protest about refugees who took food out of the mouths of decent people, like the Baum family, who had fled from Schlesien and opened a bicycle shop in Burgdorf.
    “Those refugees have no manners, no values.” Herr Braunmeier lit his cigarette. Though he was the wealthiest farmer in town, he stole words when he came into the pay-library. He’d buy his tobacco and linger among the back shelves, where the American Westerns were stacked, his eyes racing down the pages of recent arrivals, his haggard body turned toward the exit as if prepared for flight, his shoulder blades jutting out like clipped wings.
    “They believe they can just move here and we’ll start buying those bicycles like porkchops,” Herr Immers said.
    Since the town had its own complicated class system—fixed boundaries based on wealth, education, family history, and other intricate considerations—the people united against newcomers. Yet, their prejudices were often tested by their curiosity, and many of them had watched outside the shop’s window as the burly Herr Baum arranged his display of four bicycles. Although the bikes already gleamed, he kept polishing them with an oily rag. Beyond the window, in the recesses of the store, stood his wife, frail and silent. On each hip she supported a child. “Twins,” someone in the crowd mentioned, though the boy was larger than the girl. Both had runny noses and were almost Trudi’s age, far too heavy to still be carried.
    Trudi sauntered into the hallway where the coat tree was fat with black summer coats and jackets. She climbed beneath them, but as her fingers parted the layers of fabric, they came up against something that was far more solid—a sleeve that had an arm inside.
    “What’s that?” A man’s voice.
    A woman’s hushed laugh and rose perfume.
    Trudi came out behind the coat tree, where the baker’s wife and Herr Buttgereit were kissing. They pulled apart so quickly that she felt an exhilarating sense of power because she was sure she’d seen something that they didn’t want anyone to know.
    Herr Buttgereit blinked at her. “You shouldn’t sneak around like that, little girl.”
    “Don’t get her all upset now,” Frau Hansen said. “We were looking for my glasses, Trudi. Did you see my glasses?”
    Trudi shook her head and backed away from them. By the kitchen door she stopped. The women were whispering about her mother: they agreed with one another that there had always been a little too much of everything about Gertrud Montag—not just that she